Freston Tower

CHAPTER XLIII.

HOSPITALITY.

The Cardinal alone—left alone to himself—bethought him of his coming fall. He sent for Cavendish, and ordered every preparation for quiet hospitality.

'I want no state to-day. Let all my serving-men take holiday, let as many as please visit their friends in the city; and hark ye, Cavendish! let my state-visitors, who come to pry into my decline, and to partake of what good fare a Cardinal's table may afford them, be told that I am indisposed to-day.

'I am indisposed, indeed, to receive any strangers, or any ministers of state this day. My few early friends it is worth your while, my good secretary, to cultivate, for they have hearts of hospitality; and when greatness and I are separated, you may find them no mean substitute for your master. I would have you, therefore, at my table, none other; and as this is a day with which the world, the political or public world in which I am concerned, can have nothing to do, so let it be unrecorded among the transactions of my career, which you have undertaken to set down.'

Cavendish himself started at this; for, though his master knew that he kept account of all the events of his life, and employed himself in making memoranda of what happened in the course of his secretaryship, he rather desired to record that day, above all others, as one in which his master shone with the most conspicuous splendor.

'What would my lord have me say of this day?'

'Simply that I kept at home all the day. I have little stomach for the company of princes, Cavendish, but I shall be glad of thine.

'Ah! Mr. Secretary, the King has taken what he gave me, and he is welcome to it, for it is his own; and in my hands it has suffered no injury. My gold and silver is kept clean, and is fit for a king's table. But I have many things for thee to do, my worthy secretary, before we meet at our mid-day meal. You have made out a true inventory of all in my house?'

'Of everything, my master.'

'Good, then, make a true copy thereof. I give thee the things thou didst ask for, the handsome gold box in which the seals of my office are preserved; enter it not into the inventory.

'I give thee, also, Henry the Seventh's purse, which he gave to his poor almoner; and if all he gave with it had not long been handed over to his son, thou, Cavendish, shouldst have had it with its store. Note it not, but let it be a bauble preserved for the Royal Giver's sake. Henry VIII. will not leave me any memorial of himself but the remembrance of my long service.

'But tell me, Cavendish, didst thou ever see easier, gentler, or more graceful dignity in woman, than in the person of that lady now a guest in our house?'

'I never did, my lord: I thought so when I saw her, long before your arrival, nay, when she supported her father in Canon Street Prison. She is a gem of inestimable value. A princess in right of herself, at the same time that she is a servant to her husband.'

'On my word, Mr. Secretary, if the ladies knew what a discerner thou wert of true feminine dignity, they would perhaps strive to comport themselves with great carefulness before so nice a critic.'

'They would, therefore, assuredly fail, my lord; for when females try so much, or make so great an effort to appear what they ought to be in our eyes, it is a sign that they attempt to be what they really are not. The Lady Latimer has no such finesse about her. She is all she seems to be, and tries not for a moment to assume to be thought anything of. Her carriage is simplicity, the bearing of innocency; and in my eye she is handsomer, far handsomer, than Anne Boleyn.'

'Hush! this is treason as well as flattery in my house, and if reported, might disgrace thee. Thou art not yet sufficiently noble game for royal arrows to be shot at. Time, however, may come, when aim may be taken at thyself. A nobler quarry is at present in view.

'But I am glad, still, that this dear lady has attractions even for thy younger eye. Thou shall hear her converse, Cavendish; I heard it when I was your age, when it resembled the notes of a golden-strung lyre, and my young heart could respond to its song. Alas! alas! I am now like a broken harp, without one chord of love and harmony!'

'Say not so, my lord; I have ever found you sweetness and gentleness personified.'

'Go, Cavendish, prepare thyself. We meet at noon.'

At noon they all met.

The banquet-hall was spread with taste. No lords, no squires, no gentlemen-ushers, no display of courtly greatness.

Wolsey received his friends without any attempt to overwhelm them with magnificence. His condescension alone was overwhelming, for even De Freston could not be insensible to the delicacy shown upon this occasion, when the man at whose table nobles were accustomed to learn politeness, was himself so polite as to dispense with all display of nobility, that De Freston might be duly honored.

Cavendish alone participated in the unaffected pleasure of these friends. It was a banquet of love, a revival of days gone by. The Cardinal, his master, shone in a new light as the conqueror of himself.

The subject of conversation turned upon chivalry, the deeds and exploits of the tournament, the banners of the nobility, the arms, quarters, crests of the distinguished of the past and the existing day; and Wolsey said—

'I was once a gallant knight, Ellen De Freston was my mistress, and a savage mastiff my opponent; I had an ox shin-bone for my weapon, and a good courage, steady hand, and a righteous cause of action. Did I, or did I not, acquit myself valiantly?'

'No knight could ever do better execution. Did not the lady bestow her guerdon?'

'He was too proud to claim it, father,' replied Ellen.

'Then he will claim it now, fair lady; and in the presence of thy husband, too; and he himself shall not deny thee the honor of the grant.'

All looked astonishment; Ellen alone smiled, for she knew the courteous propriety of that delicate hospitality which could not ask a thing it would be unbecoming a lady's love to grant.

'I grant it thee, Wolsey, and with gratitude, for I can never forget the gallantry of that day, nor do I fail to acknowledge the compliment in this. Name it, and I will assuredly grant it.'

'Thou seest my coat-of-arms: my crest is now a Cardinal's hat; but, with thy permission, a naked arm, (for I was never a mail-clad warrior) a naked arm, bearing a shin-bone, shall surmount that hat in commemoration of our mention of the event in thy presence in York Place.'

'I cannot fail to grant it; but promise me this, that over the portal of my favorite tower, I may place thine arms so surmounted, in the hope that thou wilt honor yet again our Freston Tower.'

The Cardinal sighed. His nature could not but be grateful, nor his spirit otherwise than courteous. He felt the compliment and replied—

'I fear the latter cannot be; I must go where the King orders me, for I am his servant; but believe me, Lady, once to see the Tower again, and to feel as I now do, would be a happiness, I fear, too great for Cardinal Wolsey.

'Ipswich is in my heart: I received the rudiments of education there, and its refinements in the company of thee and of thy father.

'My friend Latimer knows well that the strong shin-bone was in my view all the days of his residence at Oxford, and only when I returned from the ceremony of thy marriage, did I drop it into the river from Magdalen Bridge.

'The memory, however, of thy kindness shall not be lost; I will send thee a nobly-sculptured coat-of-arms to be placed over the gateway of Freston Castle. Nay, lady, I have one nearly completed for my college at St. Peter's. It shall even precede thee on thy way homeward, and I will soon forward the additional appendage to surmount the Cardinal's hat.'

These things led to all the local points of memory—in which the Cardinal showed a gratitude of heart to which, for years, he had been thought to be a stranger—his inquiries after friends, his naming many who had been kind to him, the very boys whom he remembered at school.

This led to a long discussion about his college, the suppression of the monasteries, the death of John of Alneshborne, and last, not least, his hours at Freston Tower.

Upon this theme he seemed to dwell with all the fervor of imagination which he possessed in his youth; and, would time have permitted, he would have talked of Latimer's Tower and Magdalen until morning.

But his old friend, Latimer, observed that the spirit of sorrow seemed to steal over his brow; and, from excessive vivacity, a sober but delicate mournfulness came upon him. His voice, though always soft, became gradually painful, and one of those early visitations, to which his great mind was subject, oppressed him.

Nothing can be more infectious than melancholy, especially when exhibited in a great man; and though Wolsey endeavored to shake it off, it so completely subdued him, that he became silent, thoughtful, and abstracted.

Latimer and Cavendish knew his mood; but De Freston and Ellen, whose hearts were touched to pity, felt the change.

'My dear friends,' said the Cardinal,' I have enjoyed your society, but I must say farewell. I feel an oppression—a swimming of the brain—a dizziness to which I am subject, and I must retire.'

'O, Wolsey!' said De Freston, 'let me thank you for this hospitality. I am not insensible to your kindness. Proud should I be to see you again in Suffolk. Let me hope you will visit your college and me.'

I thank you, good nobleman. My college there, unless the royal Henry shall regard it, will, I fear, be neglected. Your proffered hospitality I do not think I shall tax; but my friend Cavendish, if ever you should have the opportunity of paying him any attention, I shall greet it as in memory of myself.

'I will forward you on your way to-morrow; and when, a few months hence, you hear of the Cardinal and his altered fortunes, bespeak him kindly for old friendship's sake.

'I can see a host of enemies arising, backed by the King, like his huntsman and hounds in pursuit of a poor stricken hart. Cavendish, do the duties of hospitality for me.

'Dear friends, farewell!'

With dignity and gentleness combined, the great Wolsey pressed respectfully the hand of Ellen, and cordially those of De Freston and Latimer, and left them to think of him, and to mourn over his fate.

'Twas the last day of meeting, and they part—
Reader, thou hast some gentleness of heart—
Forgive poor Ellen if she wept alone,
To see his altered mien, his altered tone,
We love our early days, our friends of youth,
When all seems loveliness and joy of truth.
So let us love, in sorrow and in shade,
For love is lasting and will never fade.'

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE FALL

When great men fall, the world is sure to talk of it for a long time. Ages after ages remember the prostrate and over-grown tree, whilst hundreds and thousands of minor bulk may lie upon the earth, and no one think anything more about them. The sapling may be snapt in the gale, but the oak—the majestic oak—is not thrown down without a tempest.

Nor was the great Cardinal overthrown without a revolution in the conduct and affairs of that prince and kingdom which he had so faithfully served. Even the clergy of the realm felt their portion of degradation in the loss of that representative, who, notwithstanding his extravagance, had certainly their temporal interest at heart.

Could Wolsey have returned with De Freston, an independent man, or dependent upon that early friendship which had no political or selfish interest in his career, he might have enjoyed the spirit of his youth upon the banks of the Orwell; and, had the enlightened Ellen been as she was in his early ambitious days of distinction, the incentive would have outweighed all the terrors of a king's frown, and he would have become a great man in his retirement.

But he went to York. There he shone as the friend of his clergy in a more subdued, but far more pleasant light. He was treated everywhere with courtesy, and had not jealously, animosity, and inveterate hatred been exercised to turn the King's mind against him, he would have become a far greater man than he had ever before been; for he might have learnt contentment.

But Ellen returns to her mansion in Brook Street; and De Freston is restored to his ancient castle. Friends from far came to meet them, as they returned, and to congratulate them upon the successful issue of that fiery trial.

Few escaped the inquisitorial court, which then sat upon heretics, as the reformers were called; and if they escaped without any falling away, or retraction of the position of truth which they held, their escape was attended with a triumph among the people, almost as great as if they had suffered martyrdom.

Bilney was never happy when he escaped from the first trial of his faith, until the spirit, the conscientious spirit of truth returned to him again, and told him it was better to suffer for the truth's sake, than to live in the favor and indulgences of sinful Rome.

Lord De Freston was happy, because he had compromised nothing, consented to no abjuration of his vows, and came home as he went up, a faithful Protestant.

There was great rejoicing at Ipswich, where, at that time, his trial was looked upon as a persecution; and every one who had imbibed anything of the growing love for truth, felt that his return was a species of victory obtained in righteousness. It had the desired effect of strengthening De Freston in his views of the truth, and afforded a forcible lesson to some then wavering in their minds, concerning the fearful consequences of embracing the truth.

The very return of De Freston caused Bilney's sorrow to be the greater, and this noble friend was one who deeply lamented with him his departure from the convictions of his soul for the mere sorrows of the world.

Better, far better, is it to stand firm, or die in a righteous cause, boldly confronting the king of terrors, with faith, than to deny, for the fancied sake of peace, the real convictions of truth.

De Freston had the strength and privilege to condole with Bilney upon his lapse, and grace to fortify his mind with the love of that Word, in which he afterwards sealed his triumph by martyrdom.

It was not to be expected that the return of De Freston, and his now public profession of the doctrines of the reformers, should be the entrance upon a life of worldly tranquillity. He was a marked man, a man against whom bigoted tongues wagged loud and long; and, as he was a learned man, and a fearless one as well, as far as regarded any temporal punishment for his faith, he hesitated not to set all the priests of Rome at defiance, and to dispute with any one of them concerning the doctrines of the reformation. His son-in-law, Latimer, was equally zealous in the defence of the truth, and exposed himself to all the fury of the times in which he lived.

'We must not shrink, Ellen,' he exclaimed, 'in our high position; we must still do our endeavors to shelter those poor clergymen in this town who stand up for the truth, and as long as my house can be the shelter for the persecuted, I feel happy, and I trust my dear Ellen does the same.'

'That she does, William, notwithstanding all the accusations she receives of deserting the Romish Church in which she was first brought up. You need not be afraid, my husband, after such an example as our dear father afforded us, when summoned to the conference in London, that I should shrink.

'I saw then, and loved his dignified and truthful demeanor, in the presence of those whom weaker minds would have feared. But I like not his living alone at Freston Castle. He grows old, and though his dear grey locks are a crown of glory to him, and his eye is not yet dim, nor his intellect abated in its wonted energies, bodily infirmities bend his gentle head, and he requires, I think, our constant residence with him.

'I cannot bear the idea of such a father being without our company. We may be useful here in promoting every good cause, but nature in the aged requires attention, and to whom can he look for love, piety, and respect, if not to his children? I propose, Latimer, that we leave our present residence, and if our father is willing, that we go to Freston.'

It was so agreed, and the faithful couple returned to dwell with Lord De Freston, who, though he had never asked it, was delighted at the mutual proposition of his children, to make abode with him in his old days. For a short time did the joys of their former years dwell with them, and a peaceful state marked the latter life of this excellent man, Lord De Freston.

Again the dear tower, the haunt of their youth, and Latimer's own project, became the place of their reading and converse; and hence issued many of those awakening epistles of the times which led to the enlightenment of not a few of the strenuous reformers of Ipswich and Bury.

The press of Master Antony Skolloker, and that of Master John Owen, showed up the monks of Bury, all the fooleries of the priests of Rome, and all the mal-practices and arbitrary doings of the diocese of Norwich. John Bale, the friend of Latimer, here wrote his 'Catalogus, Scriptorum Illustrium Britaniæ,' which he afterwards published at Ipswich.

It was in the month of December, 1530, when the log was burning on the old hall-fire, and the venerable De Freston was seated between his lovely daughter and Latimer, that a conversation arose concerning their friend the Cardinal. They were speaking of his greatness; of his altered condition, his residence and usefulness at York; when the warder's bell rang, and a young man was announced as desirous to see Lord De Freston.

He was welcomed into the hall, accoutred according to the times, in immense riding boots, long spurs, and stout leathern jerkin. The stranger bowed respectfully to the party, and looked up, as if he thought they would have recognised his features and guessed his communication; for he was, in the fashion of that day, dressed with a mourning scarf; and if these did not speak for him, the sober, grave, and mournful manner of his speech awoke in Ellen the first suspicion of his message, and then a recognition of his face, for she exclaimed—

'Thou art the bearer of ill-tidings of thy master.'

'Alas, lady! I am, indeed—my master is no more.'

'Is Wolsey dead, good Master Cavendish?

'He is dead, good Lord De Freston, and he often said to me, that I should find in thee a good man and true; a friend with whom I might awhile assuage that grief which now afflicts me.'

'And so thou shall; but take thy jerkin off. Good Latimer, attend for me on Master Cavendish, and bring him presently unto us again.'

Cavendish and Latimer retired, and when Lord De Freston looked at Ellen, she was weeping. The old man was touched, and spake most gently of him.

'We must not weep, my daughter, for the dead. Let us rather rejoice that all the agonies of his life are over.'

'In that I may, perhaps I do, rejoice, but we must heal more of his latter days to make me feel as hopeful for his future happiness as I could wish. He was a youth of promise, father; a wise, a discerning youth. I cannot forget the early devotion of his life to our society, when he appeared to possess a freedom which was then bidding fair to be untrammelled by superstition. I think of him then, dear father, and I wonder if this spirit of his youth revived in him during his last days.'

'We shall hear more of this anon. I loved his youth; I loved his learning too, my child. I admire many of his arts; but I fear he was unmerciful towards those who differed with him. But let us hear what Master Cavendish says. We must all depart. You must lose your father, too.'

This changed the current of Ellen's thoughts, and she wept no more, but spoke cheerfully to her parent—making a generous effort to divert any gloominess from his mind.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE COURTIER.

'But here comes the faithful Cavendish; he will tell us more of the real state of our dear friend's mind, and how he took the king's displeasure.'

That faithful servant, who admired and loved his master and attended him diligently, and did his business as his secretary so faithfully that Wolsey would gladly have preferred him before a better master, entered the hall with Latimer.

He had changed his riding costume for one adapted to the age when the luxurious warmth of sofas, cushions, and couches was unknown, and, in general, a high-backed, elaborately-carved chair, with good, firm, oaken seat, was the ornamental place of the guest before the cheerful blaze of the English fire.

One of Daundy's bloodhounds lay at De Freston's feet, smooth with velvet ears, long and shining, not so pendent as those of the old slot hound; but equally tinged with that black rim so indicative of the true breed.

He was a dog of most grave countenance, and except when put upon the scent, or at play with Ellen's young staghound, exhibited about as much animation as Van Amburg's lions when their master was not near them.

He opened his huge eyes as Cavendish seated himself and looked at him as if a courtier was a strange animal in De Freston's hall.

'Be seated, my young friend; a cup of posset after your ride will do you good.'

It was brought, and as exercise in that day in the shape of a journey was a much more difficult and stirring thing than it is now, when a man can breakfast in London from Ipswich and dine again at the same place he started from without using his legs or his horse's legs for a hundred yards, it was so much the more relished, and gave the generous Cavendish comfort.

'I have been five days journeying from the court. I have been many, many more journeying from the North, and glad am I, after some weeks of anxiety, to find myself a tenant of this hospitable hall. My gracious master used frequently to tell me I should enjoy the beauties of your pleasant scenery.'

'Not exactly at this time of the year, Master Cavendish, unless you are particularly partial to wild fowl shooting; but you shall want for nothing which we can give you to make you welcome. How fared your master in his latter end?'

'Alas! not so well as I could have wished. His latter hours were greatly disturbed by the king's suspicions of his fraudulent dealing with regard to fifteen hundred pounds! which sum my master had borrowed of divers persons to pay us, his poor servants.

'How did that disturb him?'

'He took it deeply to heart, that, having given up all he possessed, whatsoever had come to him from his position in the realm, that the King should show so little favor to him as to demand of him that which he had borrowed from private individuals.'

'Alas, poor Wolsey!' exclaimed De Freston, 'what is the favor of a prince worth? He gives thee honors and wealth, and takes them from thee, and robs thee in thy poverty.'

'Hush! my Lord De Freston. I am now the King's servant!'

'I am no traitor to the king, nor do I wish to speak treasonable, but truthful words to thee, Master Cavendish. Thy royal master seems to have been much too hard upon thy spiritual master. Deny it if thou canst.'

'I deny it not; for I heard that honest man say to Sir William Kingston: "Oh, good Lord! how much doth it grieve me, that the king should think in me any such deceit wherein I should deceive him of any one penny that I have. Rather than I would, Master Kingston, embezzle, or deceive him of one penny, I would it were moulten and put in my mouth. This money that you demand of me, I assure you that it is none of mine, for I borrowed it of divers of my friends to bury me, and to bestow among my servants, who have taken great pains about me like true and faithful servants."'

'I cannot help thinking that thy royal master showed more avarice than love in this matter.'

'Alas! I think so too, in honest truth, my lord; for though, when I told the king how earnestly my master blessed him, yet did he seem more anxious about his money than his blessing. But kings must not be judged like other men.'

'Not in their generation, Master Cavendish; but posterity will not spare a bad man, though he be a king. Your poor master found but little reward for his services to his Majesty, or to his country. He had better not have been ambitious of vain glory.'

'Alas! my master's memorable words will sound on many ears as proverbial of every minister of temporal power, who thinks he may exalt himself by infidelity to God, if he be but eminent for his loyalty. I am sure my master was a most loyal subject—a most obedient subject. He hated rebellion in any shape.'

'But hold!' said Latimer, 'his ambition destroyed his principles, and he became a mere time-serving minister of the State, when he ought to have been, with his holy vows, the free servant of the living God.'

'It is true, Master Latimer, it is too true, and hence his dying conviction—common to all ambitious servants who seek to reign by their master's favor—for my master exclaimed to Sir William Kingston: "If I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, he would not have given me over in my grey hairs. But this is the just reward that I must receive for my diligent pains and study that I have had to do him service, not regarding my service to God, but only to satisfy his pleasure."'

'It is a lesson to us all,' said Ellen, 'and thou, Master Cavendish, wilt remember it, and I trust wilt save thy conscience in this respect, not putting too high a value on thy new station.'

'I thank thee, lady. It is good for me to come into this country that I may be admonished by such a kind lecturer against the precipice down which my master fell so rapidly. I thank thee, lady, honestly.'

'Nay, thou art welcome, Mr. Courtier, and I trust we shall see thee better rooted in thy faith than courtiers generally are, who accommodate their opinions so nicely to their master's will, that they have no conscience but for their master's pleasures.'

'Good again! indeed thou art good in thy advice; but thou must not expect to make me an heretic!'

This was tender ground to touch upon, at such a moment, and in a first visit too. Ellen had lain too long under the ban of being called and cursed as a heretic, to mind what kings or courtiers might say or do.

Her faith was fixed, pure, simple-minded, solid, and steady, and no man could make her waver any more in her faith than they could in her principles of life.

They conversed long on their favorite topic—the Cardinal and his fortunes, his boyhood and his youth—and Cavendish was then enlightened upon many points which he might most fairly have revealed, and would have done, but for fear of his royal master.

'Tempora mutanta, et nos mutamur in illis.'

We are not, in the nineteenth century, afraid to speak truth upon any subject, and equally scorn the imputation of rebellion in so doing, as we do the idea of vapid popularity, merely for the sake of bread. We do not now-a-days worship great men for the sake of what we can get out of them; for there is little to be had, even by the humblest, since patronage, and learning, and talent, and literature, are all brought now to Mammon's hammer.

He is a bold man who speaks the truth, and he is but a coward, be he whom he will, who is afraid to do so. The man who loves another, is afraid of no man, for he can do injury to no one, and is ready to lay down his life for his brother.

Such was Lord De Freston, such was William Latimer, and such was Ellen, as the sequel will show, in the end of this tale of Freston Tower.

'Alice De Clinton,' said Cavendish, 'lives somewhere in this part of Suffolk. Have you seen her?'

'Is it likely, Master Cavendish, after our interview at York Place? She does live at her ancestral residence, Goldwell Hall; but she looks down with utter contempt upon us heretics, and I verily believe would burn us all, house, home, and Bible, provided only she could immortalise her pride.'

'Oh, Mistress Latimer! surely thou art uncharitable in thy judgment.'

'If thou art not perverted in thine own, thou wilt thyself soon perceive it. We will direct thee to her dwelling, and leave thee to the candor of thine own mind. If thou dost pronounce her more humbled in her present dwelling than when she abode in thy master's palace, then say that we are bigots, and Alice De Clinton is liberal.'

The visit was projected for the morrow. Meanwhile, with hearts of pity, Latimer and Ellen sincerely mourned over the death of Cardinal Wolsey.

They mourn'd to think a man should die
In sorrow for his loyalty;
But more they mourned the fall of friend,
Deserted in his latter end;
They felt correction 'neath the rod,
And thus were true to man and God.'

CHAPTER XLVI.

GOLDWELL HALL.

Goldwell Hall, Caldwell Hall, or, as it was afterwards designated on account of the frigidity of its stern and haughty bigot, Mistress Alice De Clinton, Cold Hall, was a spacious building, and stood upon an imposing eminence at the eastern boundary of Ipswich, being held by the Bishop of Norwich, as guardian of his niece, and afterwards appropriated to religious purposes by its proud possessor.

It was there that, in the times of the persecution of the Protestants in Suffolk, many of those furious zealots who sat in conclave upon the Reformers used to meet and deliberate upon the best method of putting an end to the growing errors of enlightenment.

Alice De Clinton had, like many haughty favorites, learned to hate the unfortunate Wolsey, when she found herself no longer supported in the dignity of her imperial influence in his house.

Alice retired from the splendor of Wolsey's court, carried with her the keenest hatred of the Reformers, on the very account of Ellen's reception at York Place; but when she came to Goldwell Hall—when she found that Latimer, Ellen, and Lord De Freston, were the most popular friends of the heretics, and lived in Ipswich, beloved by thousands—it was said that even her cold, stern, and immoveable nature was roused to rage, and she exclaimed—

'The fire shall burn them or me!'

Strange language for a high-born dame; but in those days, as in these, unsubdued tempers, fed by superstition, will be guilty of any cruelties, and yet call them virtues.

Alice was a compound of hatred, such a character as can scarcely be seen now-a-days; she would have pricked the dead tongue of Ellen with a savage joy, could she have had it plucked out and laid before her whilst she had a bodkin in her hand.

She fed hatred in her own bosom very willingly, and the insidious priests of Rome found her hall so cold to anything like love, that they could induce her to believe and almost to do anything they bade her.

Rome was an idol in her heart, because it suited the pride of her nature. The religion of Rome, which was corrupted so as to exalt the Virgin Mary into being styled the Queen of Heaven, was easily adapted to make a proud woman believe she was a sort of queen upon earth.

The elevation it gave to female influence in the affairs of the church—the pretended excellence which it attributed to female devotion, when carried to external self-denials, instead of inward humility—all tended to puff up the owner of Goldwell Hall, and make her conceive that she had more influence in the church than the bishop, and much more dignity than if she had gone to Winton.

She was closeted with Father Mortimer Duncan and Thomas Pountenay, priests of St. John the Baptist, in which chapelry stood the domain of Goldwell, and talking to them about the then unsettled state of affairs in the church; and something may be gathered very instructive from their conversation, as showing the kind of intrigue then going on under the garb of devotion.

'Can nothing be done, father, against these pestilent heretics? Has the church lost all her power, because these infatuated people have returned from their impeachment without conviction, through the leniency of your proud townsman, Wolsey?

'Why, though belonging to Ipswich, and associated with his youth, should he have been so weak as to spare the strong arm of Rome, when he could have crushed this monster in the person of De Freston? He has verily done more to root disaffection in his native town, by this poor weakness of his heart, than if he had boldly delivered that heretic to the flames. But can nothing be done?'

'We have been praying in our chapel, lady, beside those ever-burning candles, which thou hast so graciously presented to our Lady, and, as we looked upon the seven flames, we saw them divide; yes, lady, the burning flames of thy candles all appeared to be divided; and all on a sudden one half was, by an unseen hand, extinguished. We communed deeply upon this subject; we wondered what it could import, the more especially as we both perceived in the seven flames two illuminated letters, A. and E., just as brother Pountenay has here depicted them; what can it import?'

'Which was extinguished—which half—which letter, father?' exclaimed the proud lady, with a degree of agitation which rendered her whole frame tremulous.

'It was the letter E.'

'Now our lady be praised for that!' exclaimed the marble Alice. 'I can perceive its importance! It is sufficient confirmation for me! It will do, good father—it will do! It is a sign—yes it is a sign to me from heaven! It shall come to pass! I have long thought upon it. It has been upon my mind; and this wonder, which you both have witnessed in my candles, shall assuredly be before long revealed. Was it in both the candles?'

'It was.'

'Were both halves extinguished at each side of the altar at the same time?'

'At the same moment, lady.'

'Good! it is as I conjectured! O, Father Duncan, how wonderful are the manifestations given to the faithful! I can see its import. I know it well! It is a good omen for the Church of Rome, and it is well I understand it.'

'Thou art a wonderful prophetess, lady, we are but instruments; but if thou art enlightened from the burning of thine own sacred candles, we hope it imports only good to thee.'

'Good to me! yes, yes! good to me! It is always good to me to be employed in the service of Rome. Hark! the warder's bell announces a stranger. Go! fathers and friends Duncan and Pountenay; go! ye must require refreshment after your long matin devotion. Go into the refectory and partake of what thou wilt. My stranger's bell has answered to the porter's, so that I expect not a known friend—therefore retire.'

'It will answer, brother Duncan, it will answer! She will do it! The end justifies the means, and if it be but for the good of our fraternity, no matter though a foolish woman doth it.'

'But had we not better prompt her somehow, to let it be on a stormy night?'

'Leave that to me. I can introduce it. True, a night of thunder and lightning would be a very plausible suggestion; and it would be a good subject for us to descant upon the vengeance of Heaven against the heretics—leave it to me!'

CHAPTER XLVII.

PRIDE.

Alice, full of A. and E., received the humble Master Cavendish in even a more cold and distant manner than he had ever seen her put on before.

'Thy master is dead? I know it! Dost thou come to claim ought of me?'

'No, lady, I want nothing; I did but think, knowing thy former interest in my poor lord, and my close attachment to his person, that some little information of his latter end might be acceptable to the Lady Alice, from her humble servant.'

'Another time it might have been. I have only one question to ask of thee: was he shriven by a priest before he died?'

'He was, by Doctor Palmes.'

'Then I ask no more. He died a Catholic.'

'He did, lady; and recommended his royal master to look well after these heretics and heresies so prevalent.'

'Then why did he not order Lord De Freston to be burnt!'

Even Cavendish, with all his knowledge of her character, little expected this; but when he afterwards heard her speak of those hospitable friends, and all connected with them, as if she would joy to see them tortured upon the rack, flayed alive, or burnt at the stake, his blood chilled within him, and he truly thought within himself: 'This is Cold Hall indeed!'

'I ask no questions,' she added, 'of thy master's fortunes. The great Cardinal died before he departed for York. He died as soon as I left him. His was but a pitiful struggle afterwards. Had he been as firm to Rome as I would have had him, he might now have been his master's lord. But vengeance yet awaits the enemies of Rome, and weak instruments may be used for their overthrow. Are you a staunch friend to the Pope?'

This was a leading question to Cavendish, who, at that time, neither wished to be thought a heretic by denying the Supremacy of the Pope, nor to be disloyal to his new master by denying his supremacy in the visible church in matters purely temporal. But he knew well that the Papacy must have the jurisdiction of temporalities as well as spiritualities in the church, and that Alice held the foreign pontiff to be her supreme idol.

He had a difficult question to answer, but one which his tact alone could elude, so as not to create bitter animadversion against him. He therefore replied—

'The Pope, lady, has so many staunch advocates like thyself, that the friendship of such insignificant beings as I am could redound but little to his greatness. Thou, lady, art, I am sure, his warm friend, and thine influence in this neighborhood must be paramount. Has the Pope lost any power hereabouts?'

'If he has it shall be restored to him. The great patron of the divine arts, the illustrious advocate of public singers, the glorious supporter of divine architecture, the magnificent exhibitor of all that is great, noble, praiseworthy, and splendid in the worship of the Virgin, the angels, and the saints, shall not want a friend in me, though hereabouts there may want an example of fire and faggot to exterminate his enemies. Where is thine abode in these parts, Master Cavendish?'

'I am but a traveller, a visitor, a mere bearer of a message to my lord's friend.'

'And what was it, Master Secretary, what was it? Ha! did the little man want anything from Alice De Clinton?'

Cavendish marvelled indeed at the hauteur of this quondam subservient mistress of the Cardinal, his master; and within his soul, faithful as it was to a kind-hearted individual who was ever gracious to him, it revolted at the contumacy with which she, the exalted lady of Wolsey's notice, now dared to treat his memory. His memory of his master rose triumphant, and his remembrance, too, of the estimation in which Ellen was held by him came with lively impression to his mind, and he could not help punishing the haughty Alice with a declaration which he little expected she would so quickly resent.

With gratitude in his heart, a far more active agent at that moment than political prudence or cautious wisdom, he replied—

'I am upon a visit to Lord De Freston, the Lady Ellen, and Latimer.'

The haughty lady looked as if she would annihilate him with one fierce glance of her serpent eye. She rose without forgetting for a moment that she was treating a stranger, or a former friend, in her own house. She rose stately, coolly, slowly, erected her head just as a serpent of the most stupendous kind might do previous to her all determined rush upon her victim, and something more than a hiss from her forked tongue issued from her throat:

'Then how darest thou to tread the threshold of Goldwell Hall? Knowest thou not that between the daughters of Rome and those of the Devil there can be no alliance? and darest thou to contaminate with thy polluted feet the hall of the faithful, after having been an inmate of the tomb of an heretic?

'Perish, traitor, perish!—back, go back to Freston Tower! Look thence upon the birth-place of thy master; but know thou that ere another year shall sweep over the heads of those whom now thou dost call thine host, hostess, and friend, their power shall perish if they be not themselves departed.'

The very words, gesture, and cold-blooded determination of the impenetrable marble then before him, had an effect of creating a chill upon his whole frame; and he felt how truly his friends on the opposite bank of the Orwell had described the being who then stood before him.

He was so astonished at her whole bearing, that he made no attempt to retire; and had not Alice, with inconceivable scorn, pointed to the door, and without any kind of respect bade a servant show him the way out, he would have remained even longer spell-bound by the very extravagant and extraordinary manner of the speech of Alice De Clinton. He departed, however, with much less pleasant sensations than those with which he had entered; and as he looked back upon that solitary mansion, he exclaimed in a distich, which afterwards, years afterwards, changed the name of the place,

'Goldwell is cold, and colder far than all
This living corpse, a tenant of Cold Hall.'

He returned to his cheerful friends at Freston, to narrate the adventure of his reception. They were not surprised at his declaration,

'That never in the face of woman did he see so cold-blooded a feature as that of Alice De Clinton.'

Little did any of them at that time suspect the plot hatching against their peace.

It was determined that the usual festivities of Christmas should be observed by De Freston as his ancestors had done before him; and Cavendish was invited to see the tenantry of the hospitable lord do justice to the long beloved and venerated old man.

Latimer had declined living in the mansion of Humphrey Wingfield in Brook Street, Ipswich; and was looked upon as the future owner of Freston Castle and all its wide spread domain. He richly merited respect, and was as happy in the acknowledgment of every friend of De Freston and his daughter, as Albert, Prince of Great Britain, is at this moment in the hearts of Victoria's loyal subjects. But none are without enemies.

Alice had managed to hire Wingfield House as her town residence, and strange did people think the difference between the lively possessor who left it, and the stern occupier who occasionally, with rigid cold pomp, occupied the state apartments.

It was said, however, that she intended to move into the town at Christmas, and to leave Cold Hall (as it is called to this day); and consequently she had wood conveyed from her own groves to the yards of the mansion, and made every preparation to have at least the rooms well warmed.

But Alice had a burning within which few knew anything of, except her father confessor, Duncan, and those priests of Rome who worked upon her fanatic disposition. This was inflamed against all heretics, even to detest their abodes, and she had secretly resolved that the flame of Ellen—the E. of her consecrated candles—should be put out.

How this was done may be better narrated in another chapter. This is sufficient to show how weak minds may be acted upon to do deeds, under the imagination of devotion, which are abhorrent to all truth, and such as pure religion would revolt at.

'Oh who can tell what prejudice may call
Devotion, when the devil doth enthral?'

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE PLOT.

Father Duncan sat in the eastern window of Goldwell Hall, on the eve of Christmas, in earnest conversation with the Lady Alice.

'It would be a pious offering to the shrine of the Virgin, if, lady, these heretics could but receive a shock on the day of the nativity. It would carry along with it such a conviction of vengeance from on high, that all the pious in Ipswich would be moved to prayer, and all the heretics affrighted might see and know that the Papal hierarchy are supported by miraculous interference.

'What thou dost imagine, relative to that extinction of the flame of E. in thy votive candles, must be given thee; for the application is so apposite, that nothing but supernatural suggestion could possibly have presented it to thy mind.

'Thy devotions, Lady Alice are so intense, thy supplications to the Virgin Mary so earnest, that she compels the powers of the heavens to listen to her voice, and to grant thee thy request. The enemies of Rome must be extinguished. It is impossible that two flames should shine together with such opposite lights as heresy and faith; and that which we saw extinguished is, as thou dost premise, a sure presage of the establishment and extinction of those very powers which, in the persons of Alice and Ellen, represent the A. and E. in the flames, or Apostolic and Erroneous, a sure presage I say, most noble lady, of the extinction of Error, and establishment of the Apostolic See.

'Ellen Latimer, the daughter of Lord De Freston, is the most subtle enemy of the Church of Rome. Her power must be extinguished in Ipswich; and what so effectual as the destruction of her mansion, and that of her ignoble and heretical father on the same night?'

'It is well conceived, Lady Alice, and thou hast been quick, indeed, in the application of thy means. Those means are put into thine hand, thou needest not to be afraid, they will assuredly succeed; and we shall see a blaze both far and near which cannot fail to be convincing.'

'Oh, may they convince the impious enemies of Rome that they cannot prosper! I have well assured Abdil Foley of his reward. He has engaged to fire the wainscot in those unfrequented apartments of the castle of De Freston, which, ever since the death of Lady De Freston, have been closed, and are only occasionally visited by the lord himself.'

'Abdil gains access thereto from the servant's apartments, and as he has been engaged in some repairs in that part of the building, he has conveyed thereto a quantity of shavings, and inserted them behind the panels, so that the slightest influence of fire will spread beyond the possibility of its being extinguished.'

'Abdil will be among the merry-makers at the hall, and will seize his opportunity, just as he is about to leave for his own house, to go up into his son's room for his cloak. It will be at twelve o'clock. He will escape, and we must provide for him should he be suspected. None have any suspicions at the present time.'

'Abdil is now in my hall, and only awaits thy promised absolution to convince you that he is a good Catholic, ready to do the bidding of any of the priests of Rome. Shall I send him unto thee, Father Duncan?'

'Do, my daughter.'

Abdil Foley was one of those weak men, but strong, resolute devotees, who pinned his faith entirely to the word of the priest, so as to take everything he told him to do as a message from heaven. He had been taught to think Lord De Freston and his daughter had changed their profession of true religion for the false one.

He had been one among others who, though a tenant of the lord of Freston, had not been disturbed from his occupation, although the minds of many around him had changed through the very wise and able exposition of the learned noble who often instructed his tenantry. He had not been dispossessed because he retained his attachment to Rome.

Having occasion frequently to visit Ipswich as a carpenter of considerable skill, he had been noticed by the priesthood for his bending his will to their suggestions, and the infatuated man had, as many before and after have done, allowed himself to be made the tool of the hierarchy to do things diametrically opposed to the Word of God.

He had found himself completely under the hand of the lady of Cold Hall, and had been so piously inspired with her spirit, that he had promised, as a religious act of faith, to set fire to his master's premises.

Father Duncan understood the character of the man the moment he saw him, and adapted his mode of address accordingly, as the profound fool entered the apartment, bowing to the very earth, as if he was entering into the presence of the Pope himself.

'Abdil, my son, thou art welcome to our presence. Come hither, that I may lay my hands upon thee, and give thee absolution. Thy resolution to serve the church of thy fathers is nobly taken, and the destruction of heretics is a duty which every true son of Rome must feel to be a privilege, as he is therein made an instrument of vengeance upon the ungodly.

'The pious lady of this mansion has informed me, that thou dost desire to have absolution from all sin in the act thou art about to perform against that pestilent heretic, Lord De Freston. We give it thee freely and absolutely, and do not only assure thee of perfect pardon for all thy past sins, but for this act thou shall have free grace and exculpation for all sins thou mayest commit for twelve months to come.

'Therefore, my son, kneel down, that we may bless thee and strengthen thy hands by the taking of them between our own, as an assurance of their being clean from all iniquity.'

Abdil Foley knelt with the most profound submission, closed the palms of his hands as if they were two boards glued together, and inserted them with reverence between the opening palms of Father Duncan.

No wonder that he should be elevated by the imposition. The terms were such as the greatest villain who had any faith in Rome might conscientiously accept, and proceed, as Abdil did, to put in practice the most diabolical act under the pretence of doing God's service.

He returned to Freston seven times more infatuated and diabolical than he had ever before been. The poor fellow was of a naturally kind-hearted, easy temper, but was weak, ignorant, and easily imposed upon; just such as the priests of that day sought for to do the work they dared not themselves perform.

Everything was arranged, but too successfully, for the destruction of Lord De Freston's castle, and the late residence of Ellen, his daughter, in the centre of Ipswich, so long belonging to the Wingfields. Abdil had been made instrumental in the latter as well as the former, under the pretence of being employed about some repairs; so that he was in the plot, and sworn to secrecy.

We shall see, however, that if vengeance inflicted by man is suffered to prevail for a moment, it recoils upon the head of the perpetrator, even when he is seeking the ruin of the innocent. How awful were the intrigues of those days! Truth requires no intrigue, certainly no violence, to defend it. It is so calm and exalted above passion, that it scorns alike to put in force absolute cruelty, as it does absolute condemnation or acquittal.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE FOOL.

Christmas Day of that memorable year in which Cardinal Wolsey died, came with its usual festivities; which in every house were exercised in a greater or less degree, according to their means.

In De Freston's domain, it had ever been a day of the gathering of his tenantry into the great hall, when the bringing in the great log, the boar's head, and the largest buck which could be shot, as hereditary customs, were observed.

Upon the present occasion, it was, if possible, a more than common festivity, particularly on account of the great age of the proprietor, whose birthday was on Christmas Day, and he had now attained the great age of eighty-eight years.

The old Baron was as fine a specimen of an Englishman as ever walked into his hall. He retained the fire of his eye on that very day with the vigor of a man whose intellect was less impaired than his body.

It was a memorable Christmas Day for every one connected with the house of Freston—memorable, as will be seen, for its festive character; memorable for its local events, and for the destruction of the two most stately mansions which at that period graced the banks of the Orwell. But though it was a day of rejoicing to many, it was, as it ever will be, a day of woe to some.

All were happy in and around the hospitable mansion. Cavendish saw such a body of happy Suffolk yeomen meeting at the foot of Freston Tower, that he declared, if ever his fortunes enabled him to do so, he would become a Suffolk man.

From far and near all were assembled, and Ellen, more than usually happy and active, was here, there, and everywhere among her parent's tenants, interchanging, exchanging, and changing hands, words, and deeds, as became a lady of her distinction and qualities of head and heart.

What a pity that ever a cloud should have arisen to change the sunny smiles and cheerful welcomes of that happy Christmas Day.

It often happens in terrestrial things that at the very moment of our utmost felicity, when the cup of social enjoyment is at its highest point, touching the very lips of him who is ready to taste the draught, then an unforeseen blow prostrates, in a moment, all the excitement, pleasure, and enjoyment of that mortal delight in which we had been engaged.

This may be very beneficial to us all; but it is at the time confessedly severe, and it is only calm reflection, gradual wisdom, and gently sustained grace that lifts the broken-hearted to the calmer wisdom of acquiescence in the wisdom of the wise Disposer of all things.

Stoicism may harden a man's heart to such a degree, that his philosophical mind may become indifferent to almost everything; and a species of fatalism may usurp all tenderness, nature, affection, and every quality of enjoyment with which God has gifted our souls and bodies.

But stoicism, thank God, is not the Christian's creed, who looks to the law and the testimony, and the love of God for all his creatures, but most of all for man, for whom God has himself made a sacrifice, such as angels who are not partakers thereof can scarcely describe; such as souls, lost and found, can, indeed, only appreciate.

Oh, let me be the poorest fly of the sunbeam, thankful for the warmth of heavenly rays which expand my wings, rather than the chilly tenant of the gloomy, tomb-like monastery, which can only be made warm by artificial means, and then gives neither confidence nor comfort to the heart. One ray of love is worth twenty thousand torches, though they might cast a glare of light upon a murky night. One ray of love, of the daylight from on high, shall put into darkness all the candles of the altars of superstition, though they may burn with national devotion through the largest empires of the world.

So the heaviness of a sudden blow coming unexpectedly upon a Christian may cast him down for a night, but not for ever. God feels for him who can feel for others, and will lift him up from his fall, and restore him to the light.

These may be comforting words to some and foreboding ones to others, and they who read this narrative may be trembling on the breath of suspense, knowing what is coming in the course of the description, and may imagine this work is to end in the dismal sorrow of some dreadful catastrophe.

An unhappy, a designedly mischievous, and wicked act did transpire; but he whom it was meant to injure never knew the enemy that caused it; and, as we shall presently see, she whom it was hoped might be consumed, or overwhelmed with the terror of the conflagration, was so engrossed with a nobler, deeper, and more heartfelt grief, that even the destruction of all her houses would have been a cypher compared with it. The blow which divine wisdom gives carries along with it its own cure, it is to be healed by the word of wisdom; but the blow which enemies give us, wound only themselves.

The Christmas festivities of the park of De Freston were observed out of doors and in with all the usual demonstrations of temporal rejoicing. The landlord's presents were made on this day to his tenants.

New stuff gowns to good wives, new suits of liveries to all retainers, new swords to the defenders of the castle, new books to the learned, new hats, shoes, coats, jerkins, stockings, caps, woollens, and all the variety of household comforts, to the cottagers and peasantry of the domain.

All were invited to the baronial mansion, where the yule log burnt upon the open hearth, and such a blaze ascended, as lighted up every portion of the great hall without the aid of lamps.

Lord De Freston, with his faithful bloodhounds at his heels, and his loving daughter by his side, stood again, though for the last time, in the hall of his ancestors, a cheerful spectator of his tenantry and people.

The old man most devoutly blessed the fare which a bountiful Providence had supplied, and heartily wished all he saw to be good and happy.

It was not the fashion in that day to have riotous cheering in the company of the ladies, but vivid respect was not the less visible on every countenance as the party walked around the well-spread board, attentive to the wants of individuals as if they felt they were their own children.

'Abdil Foley,' said the Lady Ellen, as she happened to look him in the face, 'you do not seem happy to-day; has any misfortune come upon you or your family? I have observed you eating nothing, and you wear dejection in your countenance. Come Abdil, if you have any grief at heart, let your mistress share it with you.'

Abdil could give no answer; he was not a man of strong mind, or insensible to natural kindness, nor was he able to conceal the uncomfortable state of his heart, in the midst of the enjoyment, the festive mirth, he saw around him. He was a weak man, and a wicked one as well, as far as perpetrating a deed in prospective intention could make him wicked.

His position, at that moment, was by no means an enviable one. Conscious of the action he was fully determined to perform, and sworn to the most inviolate secrecy upon the occasion, nothing but the terrors of imposition could keep him silent, or resolute in his undertaking.

He had hoped to have managed to conceal, in the bustle of the festivities, his wicked designs, even from the torment of his own heart; but the excited spirit could not do otherwise than think of his absorbing action, which he was to perpetrate; and, until he had done it, the very hours, the very faces, the very dishes, the very exercises, all appeared to him insipid.

He could not rest; others laughed at the various oddities of the accomplished Reuben Styles, the buffoon of the day: but he, if he smiled, was so insensible to anything like merriment, that he looked as if he condemned whilst he permitted the frolic of the jester.

He answered not the Lady Ellen, but hung down his head in dogged silence, until she called Reuben Styles to her, and, with an air of pleasantry, said—

'Reuben, look at Abdil Foley, and tell me what is the matter with him.'

With vast pomposity and affected knowledge, Reuben sprang forward, seized the hand and beard of the patient, and at once exclaimed: 'Verily, lady, he hath a devil to contend with. He is a black one too—a fiery one also—and I would not be in the same house with him to-night for all the world!'

In another moment the fool fell prostrate on the floor, and struck his head, in falling, so forcibly against the column of the balcony which surrounded the hall, that he was stunned to stupefaction and sick, and was forced to be carried out of the merry company into the air.